Yippee Kay-ay!

Beat Yourself

2011-01-02T22:23:00.001-08:00

I was at MOCA today and one of the artists created five piñatas in her likeness, with one of them on display. While I knew nothing about this artist, this seemed to speak volumes as to how she perceived herself. This sparked two immediate thoughts:

First, why would you want someone to beat you [or the likeness of you] with a stick? Do you have such an intense self-loathing that you feel compelled to have people swing at you to break you apart (in the metaphorical sense)?

Second, if you made a piñata to look like you, what would you fill it with? I don't think I would fill mine with candy. While candy is enjoyable to some, there is no real value in it; it's just sugar. To me, candy equals pleasure--which is a good thing--yet it's coupled with emptiness and no real, sustaining qualities.

Who knows what I would put in my piñata? I can't say that it would be filled with all of the same thing. I actually think my piñata would be filled with a mixture of things--some sweet, some odd, some unexpected. Then again, I wouldn't want people to beat me with sticks to get to what's inside of me.

This probably defeats the purpose, but I think that I would just give away what was inside of me to whoever was willing to work hard enough for it (no sticks necessary)--on the simple condition that this person or people would share with me what's inside of them.

Idea #2,643

2010-01-06T23:20:00.000-08:00

Today I had to write a manifesto for rugby. Well, actually, I had to write about the company I work for in a rugby-esque way. Of course, this entailed hitting up thesaurus.com for more in-your-face words to describe what it is that we do for brands. This little exercise sparked an idea:

wordswithballs.com

Here's the general idea of wordswithballs.com: Do you have something to say, but you need a cruder, more crass way to say it? Try wordswithballs.com. (By the way, the logo would have an exclamation point at the end of it--with a pair of balls dangling from the bottom--to look like a full-fledged shaft. Thanks, Peggy.)

So, how can wordswithballs.com help you out? Say you were really angry with someone, and you wanted to set them straight--you know, give them a piece of your mind. This is where wordswithballs.com could make a real difference. You simply go to the site, type in how you feel, and wordswithballs.com would give you more impactful way to say it.

Here are some examples:

Before: I wish you would just go away.
After: Go fuck yourself.

Before: You are not a very nice person.
After: I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off.

Before: I don't understand what you mean.
After: What the fuck?

Before: He/she seems a bit uptight.
After: SOMEONE needs to pull the stick out of their ass.

Before: Yes, that feels good.
After: Holy fucking Jesus!

Before: I think you need a mint.
After: Your breath smells like you ate a shit-burger for lunch.

The possibilities are endless. But I see real potential with this idea. Hmmm...maybe I need to set up a url. And if you're reading this, please don't steal this idea. (Or as wordswithballs.com would put it: Nobody likes a douchebag.)

Stay tuned...

Tell Me Where You Want Your Gift, Girl

2009-08-07T11:39:00.000-07:00

In honor of Jeremih's annoyingly-catchy Birthday Sex song...

Other Types of Sex You Can Have:

Laundry Day Sex—‘Cause girl, you like it dirty.

Payday Sex—In case you want dinner first…

The Day I Checked Out That Other Chick’s Booty Sex—Girl, I love it when you get all feisty!

The Day You Caught Me Cheating Sex—Naw, girl, that was someone else.

The Day After You Told Me You Never Wanted To Speak To Me Again Sex—I knew you were only kidding, boo.

The Day I Saw You With Another Guy Sex—Alright, quit teasing now, baby…

The Day Your New Guy Told Me That He Would Spoon-Feed Me My N*ts If I Kept Talking To You Sex—That’s cool. I’ll just give my gift to someone else.

I Want a Slutty Pony

2009-07-10T15:52:00.000-07:00

From creepy dolls that emulate your face and voice, to penis-looking guns that shoot various things out of the end of them (no...not pearl necklaces), these toys are beyond unsettling. There's even a pony who appears to be looking to knock horseshoes with a stallion. Hey, they're in a barn all day together. Besides whinnying and eating oats, what else are they going to do?

All of these toys and more are part of Cracked.com's list of The 13 Most Unintentionally Disturbing Children's Toys. Check it out here.

Useful Information for Girls

2009-06-10T14:09:00.001-07:00

(See my earlier post for the guy's version.)

What's In Your Pouch?

2009-06-04T17:27:00.000-07:00

This is an authentic deerskin banana hammock that doubles as a swim pouch. (You know, to carry around a few small items you might need at the pool or beach--when you don't want to lug around a large tote.)

But this perplexes me. I'm not sure what sort of things you could actually keep in it. You certainly couldn't stash coins, because they would cause the pouch to grow heavy; not to mention, your pouch would make a "Cha-ching!" sound as you sashayed from your beach chair to the bar. Then again, the weight of the coins might make your pouch droop longer than the fringe, arousing much interest from your fellow beach dwellers.

Cash wouldn't work. If you decided to take a dip in the ocean, it would surely get wet. Plus, do you really want to dig around in your trunks to pay for a Mojito?

A tube of sunscreen definitely wouldn't fit. And if it did, you've got bigger problems than this dreaded piece of cloth.

Hmmm...maybe your driver's license, a key, aspirin, Chapstick or a condom? Yes, those things seem somewhat realistic. Always be prepared, I say.

But what's with the fringe? It makes me think of those beaded curtains that you go through as you enter a smoke shop or a $10 psychic's living room, er... "Spiritual Counseling Center." Maybe it serves to allude that something magical is hidden underneath. Or maybe it's just a nod to Urban Cowboy. Ahhh..such a good movie.

Regardless, if there was a party, and the invitation said, "B.Y.O.B.H." (Bring Your Own Banana Hammock), I have no doubt that this garment would be hit.

High School Makes SO Much More Sense To Me Now

2009-06-03T13:42:00.000-07:00

Maybe all of those boys at Fort Zumwalt North High liked me after all, but I just had no clue. (And to think, I cursed my braces and stature.) Thanks, Girlology, for setting me straight.

I would like to make a "Boyology" version of this, if I can. Charts were never my forte, but I think I can swing this one. Stay tuned...

The Chronicles of Cavorting

2009-05-12T21:16:00.000-07:00

When an evening involves a fair amount of drinking, things can get a little foggy. You could find yourself face down in someone’s front yard, with a Tacos Plus bean and cheese burrito as your makeshift pillow. Or, at some point in the evening, you may feel the need to ask yourself, “Why am I sprawled out on a strip mall sidewalk with my pants tied around my head like a Hijab?” Or perhaps, the next morning, you might awaken with a fulfilling stretch, only to accidentally brush your arm against an unknown, excessively hairy bed partner resting soundly beside you. Thankfully, technologies such as IM, text messaging and e-mail exist to help you piece together the cloudy details that led to your status quo.

Granted, there’s probably nothing eloquent about these foggy episodes or their technological transcripts. But when they are put in the hands of two empathetic, well-spoken gentlemen, your debauched tales can be delivered with a dollop of grace. Of course, you can share your stories with close friends over the next night’s rounds of drinks. But on this highly-entertaining blog that I recently discovered, you can immortalize them. Check it out here.

The Triplets

2009-05-07T12:39:00.000-07:00

Last year, three male Swedish triplets in a glam-metal band called Snake of Eden lived in the apartment above mine. Their names were Izzi, Rock and Kelli, but everyone in West Hollywood who knew them simply referred to them as “The Triplets.”

These pale, scrawny Swedes were in their early 20s and looked like they lived off a steady diet of cigarettes and alcohol. Their eyes were rimmed in black eyeliner, and each one of them had spiky, white-blond hair à la C.C. Deville, with their own version of the ‘80s hair-band uniform—leather pants, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, a scarf and some kind of animal print accessory. Often, they were shirtless; if I was fortunate enough to see them with a shirt on, it was usually a red, mesh sleeveless number. (Note: They were always dressed like this—even at 10 a.m. on a Saturday.)

Parties were part of their nightly, rock ‘n’ roll ritual. I’d often hear them tumbling down the stairs drunk. Or I’d be arriving home from a night out to find one of The Triplets hunched over, puking off the edge of the driveway. And just about every morning, the stairwell was filled with the distinct herbal essence of weed. During the week, I would knock on their door at midnight and ask politely if they could turn their music down because it was too loud. Whichever one answered the door would reply innocently, “Oh, ve didn’t knuw.”

Yet, as annoying they were, I was a little intrigued by them. What did they do during the day? Did they have jobs? Where did they get their money to pay for their apartment? Was their band actually pretty big, and I just didn’t know it?

One Friday night, I was given the chance to learn the answers to all of my questions about The Triplets. I had been at a happy hour, and I came home around 10 p.m., fairly buzzed. I didn’t want to call it a night, but I didn’t think I should drive anywhere either. As I was debating what to do, I heard two girls talking outside my door. It was a conversation that was all too familiar.

“Man, I hate being tall. I feel like I tower over everyone. And I can’t wear heels. You’re so lucky…”

“Well, I’d rather be tall than short. How tall are you?”

“5-foot-9.”

With a generous amount of alcohol in me, I felt compelled to intrude on their conversation. I opened the door to see two young, cute rocker chicks—one dark-haired and tall, the other short and blond. I said to the tall one, “Oh girl, that’s nothing. Try being 5-foot-11. I’m telling you… You just have to embrace it. You’re beautiful. Be proud of your height.”

The girls stared at me, a little shocked by my sudden interruption. I sensed their confusion. “Sorry,” I explained. “I just got home from a happy hour, and I heard your conversation from inside my apartment.”

“Oh, that’s cool. So you’re The Triplets’ neighbor?” the short one asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Jenna,” said the tall one. “And this is Carrie.” She motioned to the shorter blond one.

Just then, The Triplets came bounding down the stairs. Two of them put their arms around the girls.

“Ya, let’s go,” one of The Triplets said.

“Hey, what are you doing right now?” Jenna asked me. “We’re going to the Whisky to see Sierra Rose. You should go with us.”

Hmmm…I’ve always wanted to go to the Whisky. And I’ve never hung out with The Triplets.

“Okay.”

We walked across Sunset Boulevard to Whisky a Go-Go. On the way over, Jenna told me that she and Carrie were planning to marry Rock and Kelli so they could get their green cards.

“We’re not in love with them, and they’re not in love with us. We’re only doing it to help them,” Carrie assured me.

We filed into the Whisky, grabbed some drinks at the bar, and then worked our way up to the stage. More of The Triplets’ friends joined us. They looked similar to The Triplets, only not as much like they stepped out of Headbangers Ball. One wore head-to-toe leopard print. I glanced around and noticed that everyone had black, white-blond or pink-streaked hair and was dressed in some type of fishnet-leather-black-eyeliner-skull ensemble. Even though I was in a black dress and boots, I felt like Betty White amidst the emo punk crowd. Sore thumb? Hi, that’s me.

The band played for a half-hour or so. Then, The Triplets invited the crew back to their apartment.

As we crossed the street to our building, one of The Triplets turned to me and said, “We’re having un aftur-party at our place. Ya, you should come.”

I hesitated. “We’ll just keep you up anyway…” he added. “Might as well come to da party.”

Then, it hit me: The Triplets just invited me into their apartment. Lord knows what this place was like. I had to go.

We climbed the stairs to their place. They opened their door, and the first thing I noticed was a giant sex swing. It was the focal point of their living room. Hello, and welcome to my sex den. Would you like a breath mint, or perhaps, a condom? I scanned the room: The whole place was decked in red, black and white, with plethora of skull items strewn about—skull string lights, skull candle holders—even a skull blanket draped over the couch. They had keyboards, a keytar, guitars and amps. White bits of paper were embedded in their dark brown carpet, and a giant jug of Southern Comfort sat in the middle of their coffee table, amidst a sea of plastic cups. It kind of looked like a dirty ‘80s rock ‘n’ roll funhouse.

I sat alone on the couch and drank Southern Comfort. Kelli, the quietest of The Triplets, stood next to me. (I could tell them apart that night because Rock was the one in the cowboy hat and Izzi was wearing the white scarf.) I was a little bored, so I asked Kelli if I could see his keyboard.

“Ya,” he said, and followed me over to it.

It was loud enough at the party that I didn’t think it would be a big deal to plunk around on the keyboard. (As the only non-fishnet-leather-black-eyeliner-skull-clad person, the last thing I wanted to do was draw more attention to myself.) The keyboard was in the corner, and everyone was talking. I figured no one would notice. Plus, I had a good amount of alcohol in me, so I really didn’t care if they did.

I hadn’t touched a keyboard in a while, and the only songs I could remember were ‘80s rock jams--perfect for this crowd. I began with the opening chords of “Jump” by Van Halen. Then, I played Motley Crüe’s "Home Sweet Home,” followed by “Stairway to Heaven.”

“Wow, you play gut,” Kelli remarked. “You play any other instrument?”

“I play the guitar a tiny bit,” I said.

He handed me the acoustic, and I sat on the couch and strummed it. I was a little nervous because his brothers came over to watch. My mind was a blank, and the only song I could remember that they would know was Guns & Roses’ “Patience.” So I played it.

“Ve love Guns und Roses!” Rock exclaimed. “Dat’s Izzi’s favorite band.”

When I finished my all-chord, extremely elementary version of G ’n’ R, Kelli commented, “You play keyboard and guitar. Vat else do you play?”

“That’s it,” I said, as Izzi and Rock were leaving. Kelli sat down on the couch next to me, and I seized my chance to ask him some questions:

Me: So, what are you guys doing here…in the States?
Him: Going to da Musician’s Institute.
Me: Is that a sex swing?
Him: Ya.
Me: Where did you get it?
Him: Un friend gave it to us.
Me: Do you use the sex swing?
Him: Ya.
Me: Where’s your mom?
Him: En Sveden.
Me: Does she ever come visit?
Him: Ya, sometimes.
Me: Has your mom seen the sex swing?
Him: Ya. She vorries about us…ve tell her it’z alright.

I glanced up and noticed their friend who was dressed in head-to-toe animal print had passed out. It looked like a leopard had died in the corner chair. Then, someone announced that the party was moving to some guy’s place in Hollywood—so I headed back downstairs to my apartment.

* * *
I saw The Triplets periodically after that. But I never hung out with them again. Then, about a month later, I heard the sound of rushing water coming from the back of my apartment. I went into my bedroom, flipped on the light and saw water rushing through my ceiling fan and onto my bed. It had to be coming from The Triplets’ apartment.

I went upstairs and knocked on their door. The one who answered seemed a little out of it. “Ya?”

“Do you guys have a leak or something? There’s water coming into my apartment.” Jesus, how could they NOT hear it? It was loud.

“Hold on, un I’ll check.” He said something in Swedish to his brother. His brother went around the corner and returned shortly. “Da toilet vaz ovurflowing.”

“Your toilet was overflowing?”

“Ya, ve didn’t know.”

“How could you not know?” I shook my head incredulously. I was pissed. Their toilet must have been overflowing for a while to generate enough water to go through the floor into my bedroom. Plus, the running water sounded like friggin’ Niagara Falls! Then, I looked at the three of them with their bloodshot eyes, and suddenly, I got it. They were baked.

I went back downstairs, and dirty toilet water was still running into my bedroom. The shit was literally hitting the fan. My smoke detector went off from the water running through the electrical wiring of the light, which kind of freaked me out. I called the fire department to make sure it wouldn’t start a fire.

After that fiasco, I decided that I wanted The Triplets to move. My neighbor, Mike, told me that he reported them several times to the landlord for being loud, and that he thought they were moving out soon. Within two weeks, The Triplets had left our building.

Several months passed and I only saw them once, out in West Hollywood. Then, my friend, Rusty, told me about Daisy of Love.

“Check it out—your old neighbors are going to be on there!” He sent me the link, and sure enough, it was unmistakably The Triplets. I had to watch.

They only appeared in the first episode. When they were introduced, they told the camera that they were ‘rock ‘un roll stars…baak in Sweden.’ (Daisy nicknamed them ’84, ’85 and ’86—because that’s what year they look like they’re from). All they did on the show was drink and eat. At one point, they were shown dipping raw hot dogs into salsa. Those scrawny Swedes must’ve been hungry!

Not surprisingly, they were the first to get kicked off the show.

“Datz okay,” they said, unaffected. “Ve only wanted to party with ze free booze un food…”

Once dismissed, host Riki Rachtman told The Triplets they could take home all of the food they could carry. So, true to form, The Triplets' final scene shows them leaving Daisy’s Hollywood mansion holding multiple aluminum trays of meat and sides.

The Hills Are Alive...With the Sound of Octuplets

2009-04-30T14:47:00.000-07:00

I've seen quite a few musicals in my life--from The Music Man, Fiddler On the Roof and The Sound of Music to A Chorus Line, Chicago, Annie--even Jekyll & Hyde. But I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like this

I can only imagine the songs it will include. I'm sure there's a catchy "Embryos (Put Them In Me)" number being written right now...

Random iPhone Apps I Think They Should Make

2009-04-30T12:53:00.000-07:00

The Nonconfrontational App— When you’re trying to avoid calling someone, it automatically sends out the obligatory, seemingly genuine, text message: “Sorry I haven’t been able to call. Things have been nuts at work.”

The Levitra App—Increases the size of your iPhone by up to three inches. Note: If phone remains enlarged for longer than four hours, consult iPhone support.

The “Man Plunging To His Death” Ring Tone—Begins with a loud, dramatic Ahhhh!, then fades to an unpleasant Thunk!, followed by morbid silence.

The WOPR App—Transposes your voice to emulate the robotic speech pattern of the War Games’ super computer “Joshua.”

The Biological Clock App—[For women who wish to bear children] Ticks away the time that remains until your womb is barren of its fertile eggs. (Ominous warning signals when you’re within final hours of “drying up.”)

Horseshoes

To Hell and Back

2009-03-20T14:44:00.000-07:00

One of our wine clients has teamed up with Hell’s Kitchen and Gordon Ramsay for a yearlong promotion featuring wine pairings with the infamous chef’s recipes. In order to generate awareness and excitement amongst wholesalers and consumers, I had to write a few scripts for Mr. Ramsey. (Needless to say, I sprinkled enough f-bombs in these scripts to put the FCC’s knickers in a twist.) The outcome of this was that, a couple of weeks ago, some coworkers and I got to visit the set of Hell’s Kitchen to record Gordon Ramsay saying these very Ramsay-esque things.

When we arrived at the set, the first thing I noticed about it was how much it looked like a real restaurant. It was stunning! An epic crystal chandelier hung over the translucent, blue-lit HK double-door entryway—much like something you would see at the Bellagio in Vegas. There were a series of curved booths with padded seats along both sides. All of the tables on one half of the “restaurant” had red plates while the other half had blue, to represent each of the teams on the show. The enormous kitchen was located at the front, with one portion red, and the other blue.

We set our purses and coats aside so as to be out of the peripheral view of the camera. I wasn’t sure if we could affect the set design, so I set my coat, sweater and purse on the floor—unbeknownst to me, over a hot light. About 10 minutes later, I suddenly started to feel the early stages of a headache. I returned to my purse and knelt down to dig some Advil out of it when I detected a powerful burning smell. I looked over and saw that my coat was smoking! Immediately, I picked my coat up to discover that the hot light had ignited my gray, wool sweater. The nearby teleprompter girl and I shared a nervous laugh over it. (Later on, I learned that it had actually burned a perfectly, round, floorlight-sized hole in my sweater.) Yes, I almost started a fire in Hell’s Kitchen.

Ramsay arrived over a half-hour late. He apologized with the excuse that he was sick with something vile—‘yellow fever, typhoid fever…some kind of fucking flu.’ We knew right away that he was in sour spirits.

He danced around, on-edge and rattled off the first of four scripts that I wrote—which were scrolling through the teleprompter.

“Bloody hell! Who wrote this?” He spouted.

Immediately, I wanted to hide underneath one of the Hell’s Kitchen tables.

After a few more reads, he ranted again, “Fucking who wrote this?”

“He hates me,” I whispered to his rep, Monica, as I cowered behind the scripts in my hand.

“This tastes like poodle shit!” Ramsey said to the camera. Then he turned to us, “Do I fucking say this? Really?”

“He’s just shocked to realize that he cusses so much,” Katrina, one of his other agency reps, assured me.

As Ramsay bounced around on his feet like a highly caffeinated white-clothed demon, he finally made it through both wholesaler scripts, one of which featured all of the expletives. (Hey, nothing gets sales guys fired up like a good old-fashioned f-bomb or two delivered by the ornery King of Criticism.) After that, Ramsay read the consumer script, which was pleasantly ‘fuck’-free, so as to not offend Mom in the grocery store. Lastly, he breezed through the website sound bites. In my favorite one, he said, “Do me a favor: Fuck off!”

Several more times through the recording of the scripts, he cursed to himself and the teleprompter. Then he commented dryly, “Whoever fucking wrote this must be a fucking HUGE fan of the show.” (Note: I’ve never actually seen the show. But I watched a lot of YouTube clips and read several interviews in order to accurately capture Ramsay’s speaking manner and persona.)

Once the taping was finished, each of us got our photos taken with him. When I asked if he would pose in a picture with me, he warmly put his arm around me, squeezed my waist tightly, and beamed, “Look at this tall, beautiful woman beside me!” Whether he truly meant it or he simply felt bad because of his earlier remarks, I blushed, and immediately, forgot all of his insults. That Ramsay, he’s a charmer!

* * *

After all of our photos were taken, Gordon Ramsay thanked us heartily, commended us on our brilliant promotion, and then headed out the door with fire at his heels to start prepping the kitchen for that night’s episode of Hell’s Kitchen.

It's Business Time

2008-07-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday, I came home at 3:30 a.m. to find the dumpster and a black motorcycle in my parking spot. Shit. Why did this have to happen at this time? I was tired and frustrated. And I couldn’t exactly honk my horn so the perpetrator would come outside. Hell, it was 3:30 in the morning! I wanted to go to sleep…

Fuck it, I thought. I’ll just move the dumpster and motorcycle myself.

As soon as I put my Mazda into park and opened the door, a rotund African-American guy trudged down the stairs towards me. “Is that your spot?” He asked coolly.

“Yeah,” I said. “And somebody needs to move their shit,” I muttered, with a bit of irritation in my voice.

“I’m movin’ it,” he responded, shuffling towards his bike.

“You need to help me move the dumpster, too.” I told him.

Just then, my 40-something, female upstairs neighbor yelled out over the balcony angrily. She shook her fist at me, and in some sort of thick Slavic accent, she screamed, “You don’t talk to my customers like that!”

What? Customers? Does that mean what I THINK it means?

Yes folks, a hooker lives above me.

“Listen, I’m tired. I just want to park my car and go to bed,” I responded as calmly I could, thinking she would follow suit. But for some reason, this made her even more infuriated. Maybe she didn’t understand me.

“Fuck you, bitch! Go the fuck home!”

Keep your pants on, sister. (Well, at least until you get back to work.) I just wanted to pull into my parking spot. After all, it’s my spot.

“Fuck you, shit-cunt! Go home, bitch!” she screamed at me. Jeez. It was as if I was being verbally assaulted by a Russian hooker with Tourette’s. She kept screaming curse words at me maniacally. I was beginning to get scared. What if she unleashed holy hooker hellfire on me or did something crazy to my car—like slashed the tires?

Her customer moved his motorcycle behind someone else’s vehicle, and I backed my Mazda into my spot. When I got out of my car, my upstairs neighbor was still hanging over the balcony screaming, “Fuck you, bitch!” I walked towards her, and replied as pleasantly as I could, “Hey, all I wanted to do was park my car in my spot. I’ve had a really long day…”

She cut me off and screeched, “Don’t fucking talk to me like that! Fucking cunt! Bitch, go the fuck home!” She was enraged—like she wanted to claw my eyes out. Jesus, it was the middle of the night. I really didn’t give a shit what she was up to at this hour, as long it didn’t involve my parking space.

I gave up trying to reason with her. As I silently passed her on the way to my apartment, she hung over the balcony and yelled smugly, “That’s right, bitch! Go home! Have a good night!”

I unlocked my door and stepped inside, completely baffled by what just took place. Based on the incidents at hand, here’s what I concluded:

1) My upstairs neighbor is a hooker.

2) She has little grasp of the English language—except for a few choice curse words. “Bitch” and “cunt” appear to be her favorites.

3) It’s clear that she doesn’t like me. (Note: Before this incident, I’ve tried to say, “Hi” to her on several occasions, and she completely ignored me and/or gave me a dirty look. Does she think I’m going to steal her customers? Or maybe she thinks “Hi” means “rancid crotch.” I should discreetly slip a list of useful English greetings and phrases at her door. Yeah, that would help.)

4) She lets her “customers” park wherever they damn well please. What is this…Whore Depot?

5) Apparently, it doesn’t take much to make her fly off the handle.

And lastly...
6) she struck me as being psychotic. I am now somewhat scared of her.

Smells Like Dinosaurs

2008-04-05T15:22:00.000-07:00

You’ve always been one to say what’s on your mind.

You speak freely about things like ice-skating, Martha Stewart, robots, teddy bears, salad tossing, Satan. Hey, you’re in a safe, comfortable environment. Why the hell not?

Little did you know, your little love-muffin-sugar-dumpling-honey-pie-sweetie-cakes was listening to your every word, documenting your deliberate responses, noting each sarcastic nugget of brilliance…

only to later, post it on a website.

Well, folks, it’s true. There is, indeed, such a site. And I stumbled upon it. (I swear, you could google “Mother Teresa” and discover a page dedicated to Himalayan goat porn.)

While somewhat offensive, these gems are pretty funny. But I’m not sure how each comment was remembered so clearly. Was her Victoria’s Secret Biofit® Bra tapped?

Regardless, you can check it out here.

Why Listen to Anything Else When You Can Listen To This?

2008-03-26T17:55:00.000-07:00

“The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules…”

--Rob Gordon from Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity”

My love of the mix tape began when I was nine years old. My dad gave me a blank Memorex cassette and told me to record songs off Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 Countdown that he’d like. Toto’s “Africa,” Styx’s “Mr. Roboto,” and Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ “Come On Eileen” (his favorite) all made the cut. This became a Sunday morning ritual.

A couple of years later, I got a radio/tape player for Christmas and started making my own compilations. Adam Ant, Culture Club and Prince were among my playlist regulars. To balance out their eyeliner and pirate shirt androgyny, I’d sprinkle in a few balls-out dirty boys from K-SHE 95’s “Monday Night Metal” show—AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne and Scorpions.

In high school, I graduated to indie and modern rock mixes—primarily created from Les Aaron’s “New Music Sunday.” Oh, there were always a couple of radio hits mingling with them. At any given moment, songs like “Under the Milky Way” and “A Question of Lust” might be followed by “Push It” and “The Humpty Dance.”

Since then, I’ve created a multitude of mix tapes. These evolved to mix CDs—LOTS of ‘em—for birthdays, holidays, barbecues, bachelorette parties, etc. And in recent years, I’ve become somewhat known for my eclectic mixes (at least amongst my friends).

When it comes to the collection of particular tracks, I rarely follow a theme. Usually, I just burn a bunch of songs onto a CD that I’ve been digging lately (and that I think the person I’m making it for would like). I always throw a few wild cards in the mix—say, Nazareth or Nenah Cherry. No matter what makes the cut, though, I have to agree with Mr. Gordon. The making of a great compilation is all about creating a flow—one that allows you to go from Pixies to The Go! Team to The Game to Dilated Peoples to Beck to Michael Jackson to T. Rex—as if these artists were all meant to hang together in the same space.

At this point, you’re probably asking yourself, why is she going on and on about mix tapes? Who gives a shit? Why am I reading this? Where’s my bong?

Well, all of this is leading up to a kick-ass website that I discovered yesterday. If you like mix tapes as much as I do, then you need to check this out IMMEDIATELY. The site is muxtape.com. And its reason for being is the same simple reason you make a mix tape: To share your music with someone else. Only, in this case, you can share it with many people. Granted, this site is pretty bare-bones. No cool graphics or cutting-edge flash intros. No catchy links running along the side or smart-ass comments from satisfied or unsatisfied users. Regardless, I thought it was pretty cool. After all, it’s all about the music, right?

And of course, I made a mix tape on it—which you can check out here*.

*NOTE: My songs might not currently play due to technical errors. They played yesterday. But today, there seems to be a bit of difficulty. I assure you, though, when the über-geniuses at the muxtape.com help desk get the glitch figured out and fixed, be prepared to fill up on MAJOR ear candy. In the meantime, make your own sweet mix.

I Love a Parade

2008-03-06T23:12:00.000-08:00

While watching the film version of “Oliver” the other day, I pondered this question: What if LIFE was one, big musical? Frustration could be expressed through a string of melodic expletives. Awkward silences would be filled with beguiling lyrics. Getting a root canal or waiting in line for the bathroom might be more bearable. And at a routine stop at the gas station, if you saw a bum grab his junk while you pumped, you could probably make a pretty catchy song out of it.

No doubt, every day would be entertaining, and you could overcome just about any obstacle. For instance…

1. You’re trying to explain something to someone, and they’re STILL not getting it. Did they ride the freakin’ short bus to school? You put it in a happy, little tune and…FINALLY, it sinks in. NOTE: Sometimes you need to spell it out, as in “Doe. A deer. A female deer. Bitch. A dog. A female dog.”

2. You’re trying to trick a crowd into buying into your crap, and they’re not falling for it. But when you turn it into all-group sing-along, suddenly, you have ‘em eating out of the palm of your hand. (It’s a little creepy, though, if you’re a grown man trying to start an all-boys marching band in a small town. Just sayin’…)

3. You are at a drinking establishment and trying to avoid a previous hook-up: “Shit! He/she saw me!” Now what? Engage the crowd in song, and while everyone is dancing their asses off all Pappy McSlappy with a pint o’ Paulaner in their grimy mitts, you cut out through the side door, easy-peasy.

4. People are much more willing to accept your deep, dark secrets—no matter how embarrassing or controversial—when expressed through song. Like if you’re a [sweet] transvestite. Share it in a splashy, garter belt ‘n’ feather boa-wearin’ number, and…instant moral support!

5. You can sing about anything—even whores—and somehow, it manages to sound somewhat sugary and innocent.

6. Drinking naturally lends itself to singing—which means after you've sucked down a few cocktails, it would be perfectly acceptable—if not ENCOURAGED—to break into robust song so as to share your happiness, albeit temporary, with everyone else around you.

7. You can openly express how you feel about someone without fear of ridicule. Granted, this usually works best if the feeling is mutual. Of course, there’s still a slight risk that you could make an ass out of yourself—in which case, you may find yourself in situation #6, ultimately leading to #11.

8. You can share the salacious details of a liason (without really sharing TOO much) through a series of clever rhyming euphemisms.

9. You can openly discuss plastic surgery you’ve had—from the breast augmentation that’s changed your life to the “angry inch” that remains from your botched penile removal.

10. The most ordinary activities—from bowling to cleaning the chimney sweep—are suddenly injected with a little excitement.

11. You can invite someone to engage in a bit of questionable behavior without sounding like a complete ‘ho. (Okay, you MIGHT sound like a ‘ho.)

12. It’s an effective way to remember someone’s name—although it might be a LITTLE obvious if you immediately break into a song with his/her name in it upon first meeting. (I’d wait until they were out of hearing range.)

13. If you don’t have a GPS in your car, it’s a simple way to remember directions—even if you take same road all the way to your destination. (Like if it’s yellow and brick.)

14. Jazz hands and fan kicks would be just as common as high-fives and flippin’ the bird.

15. Lastly, if something truly excites you, there’s no greater way to express your affection than through song. (Honestly, though, I can’t imagine singing about a parade. They get old after a while. I mean…Shriners and clog dancers and baton twirlers? After the first 10 floats, I’m ready for the after-party. But that’s just me.)

Swarmed!

2008-02-27T22:03:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I ventured out on my lunch to Urban Outfitters on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica to buy a birthday gift for my friend, Kari. After sifting through “Who Shat That” books, Care Bears t-shirts, talking yard gnomes and other possible items she might enjoy, I finally found two that were the perfect combination of thoughtful and offensive. Excitedly, I brought them to the checkout.

As I was standing at the counter, I noticed a crowd of people gathered at the entrance of the store looking at something through the glass doors. Hmmm…I wonder what they’re looking at, I thought.

I finished paying and headed towards the doors. It was then that I realized that no one was allowed to leave Urban Outfitters. And outside, the whole area was sectioned off with yellow “Police Line, Do Not Cross” tape, while four police officers stood guard. All because of…

BEES!

Hanging from the tree in the center of the cobblestone street, right in front of the Urban Outfitters store, there was a GINORMOUS beehive SWARMING with hundreds of bees. It was about the size of Vern Troyer a.k.a. “Mini-Me.” (I know how big he is because I saw him once, up-close, riding on his Segway at the Bellagio in Vegas. Basically, he’s about the size of a sack of potatoes.) I had never seen so many bees! How had I not noticed this on my way in?

Through the glass window and from behind the yellow police tape, everyone watched in awe as the beekeeper—or beekiller, whatever he was—propped a ladder up against the tree and ascended to spray the hive. He was dressed in a white, airtight, jumpsuit-looking thing with a huge, clear plastic helmet attached to it—straight out of “The Right Stuff.” He doused the hive with an ungodly amount of poison—so much, that it dripped from the bottom of the hive and soaked the concrete below. Finally, it grew heavy with the weight of the liquid, collapsed to the ground, and a heaping mound of dead bees landed on the pavement. There had to be at least a thousand bees! Unfortunately, there were just as many who had cheated death. And man, they were PISSED.

Bees were EVERYWHERE—buzzing through the branches of the trees, all around the beekeeper, near Urban Outfitters, Guess, Bebe and Forever 21. A few drunkenly landed on the ground and staggered to their final steps.

On the concrete right in front of Urban Outfitters, we watched as the bees withered away slowly. Their little wings fluttered helplessly, and they gasped their last little bee breaths, as if to say, “Must. Kill. That. Evil. Mother. Fucker.”

My lunch break is approximately an hour. And at this point, it was nearing the two-hour mark. I had not planned to be away from the office for this long, especially since Anne, an Associate Creative Director that I worked with, needed some lines from me for a cat food job that we were working on. My guilt got the best of me, so I called my work and asked to speak with her. The receptionist couldn’t track her down, and offered to take a message instead.

“Well…” I began. “Anne needed me to write some copy for her. But I can’t leave Urban Outfitters because there’s a swarm of bees outside, and they’re not letting anyone go. But I’ll try to get out as soon as I can. Maybe 10 minutes or so?”

“Um, okay,” she sounded unsure.

“I swear, I’m not making this shit up.”

“Alright, then. I’ll tell her.”

While CSS, The Rapture and other assorted indie bands blared through Urban’s sound system, we continued to stare out the windows at the spectacle before us.

The Urban Outfitters manager approached us as we waited patiently. “Whoever asked if there was a back door—we can’t let you out that way. Sorry.”

So we just stood there, watching…and waiting. I was restless, so I wandered around and perused the overpriced plaid Little House On the Prairie-esque blouses and gold falcon necklaces. After doing a lap through the new spring arrivals, I made my way back over to the door.

“What…are we stuck inside here ‘til every last bee is dead?” I asked my fellow Urban Outfitters comrades. I mean…I love distressed tees and Arcade Fire as much as the next girl, but I had to get out of that store.

Finally, after it seemed like the bee death count had grown to a safe number, I decided that I was going to make a run for it. “I’m gonna try to escape,” I told the group. “The cops aren’t going to arrest us if we leave, are they?” I asked no one in particular.

“Yes, but you could get stung,” a short, older Hispanic woman answered.

“I’ll scale the wall so they won’t get me,” I told her. I wasn’t a bee psychologist, but it seemed that the live ones were more focused on seeking revenge for their brethren, which meant they stayed in fairly close proximity to the beekeeper/killer.

I quickly opened the glass door and darted out, making sure to stay close to the building. The cop in front of the Guess Store and a few Promenade shoppers looked at me like I was crazy. But I felt fairly safe. Everywhere I stepped, the sidewalk was dotted with dead bees.

* * *

When I got back to our building, I headed straight to Anne’s office.

“Did Emily give you the message?”

“Yeah, she said you were going to be late coming back because you were trying to avoid a swarm of bees.”

Gee, I'm sure glad that message didn’t get misconstrued.

If We Get Bored, We'll Move To California

2008-02-19T22:50:00.000-08:00

A year has passed since I moved to West Hollywood, California, and so much has happened…

Lindsey went to rehab.
Paris chopped her hair off into a bob.
The Intermix store opened on Robertson.
Slash published his G ‘n’ R memoir, aptly titled “Slash.”
Britney missed several depositions.
Her sis, Jamie-Lynn became preggers.
Fred Segal had a 90%-off sale.
And it almost snowed.
(Wait…that was somewhere else.)

Amidst the chaos, I’ve adjusted to LA, with all of its good and bad, but never boring, attributes. I’ve also absorbed a lot of useful knowledge. Here are some key findings:

Online Comedy Traffic School, while thorough and informative, is not as funny as one would hope.

My upstairs neighbors (three male Swedish triplets) seldom wear shirts.

The hookers who used to live in my apartment had a fondness for French hook
earrings.

There are four public restrooms on or near Melrose: The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, Johnny Rocket’s, Antonio’s, and The Fairfax Senior Citizens Center.

Apparently, Ron Jeremy and I hang out in the same circles.

The Coronet Pub’s signature drink “17 Days In a Crackhouse” is quite savory. (I would say it’s probably better than spending 17 days in a crackhouse.)

Tokyo Delves is, indeed, the Japanese equivalent to Chuck-E-Cheese. No Jasper T. Jowls or skee-ball, though.

The ratio of collagen lip augmentations to frozen yogurt stands is, oddly, about the same.

If you wish to save cash on your next colonic, there’s always a valuable coupon in your weekly Money Mailer.

There are often times when it would be useful to speak Spanish. At the gas station, for example. Or Target.

The tiniest, nondescript place in West Hollywood can become immortalized on an episode of “The Hills.”

Sunset Tan, for some reason, is fascinating enough to garner its own show on E!

Give a homeless man a Slim Jim, and you have a friend for life.

If your parking space is located next to a dumpster, your car will be the hot make-out spot for stray cats.

Raccoons are about the size of Shelties. They, too, tend to loiter near your car (if your space is next to a dumpster.)

If you’re at The Belmont in West Hollywood and a 30-something British man in a woolen scarf asks you if you’ve ever seen uncircumcised penis before, regardless of your answer—you are about to see an uncircumcised penis.

Sometimes, after 12:30 a.m. in Hollywood, you can talk a $10 parking lot attendant down to a more reasonable $5.

With the high number of dogs in LA, one could step in dog excrement at any time, anywhere. Even on a date.

It is perfectly acceptable to wear platform stripper shoes in a step aerobics class.

To entertain yourself while stuck in traffic, learn all of the words to Snoop Dogg’s “Gin & Juice.” Later, apply this knowledge at your next karaoke outing.

You’d think that dried palm tree leaves wouldn’t hurt if they smacked you in the face when you ran under them. But they do.

A fishnet body stocking makes a suitable Halloween costume.

Sometimes, a public establishment is safe. Then you hear about the gang-related shooting that took place the week prior.

If it’s 54 degrees, weather-appropriate attire in Los Angeles might include any of the following: flip-flops, a hoodie or an Eskimo-esque winter coat.

Uggs: fashion’s great question mark.

An orange face does not equal a tan face.

El Pollo Loco means “the crazy chicken.”

My friend’s friend’s uncle was The Hamburgler in the McDonald’s commercials.

In addition to g-strings, fishnets, dildos, vibrators, lubes, XXX films and “Officer Naughty” ensembles, the Hustler store also sells pipin’-hot, fresh coffee. (‘Cause hey, no one wants to fall asleep in the dildo aisle.)

To sum up the 6 p.m. commute from the Westside to West Hollywood in a word: clusterfuck.

And lastly—
after a year in LA, I still get excited when I see someone in a Cardinals’ baseball cap and must immediately strike up a conversation.